


All the Way

by trashwriter



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, askbox fill gone long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashwriter/pseuds/trashwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taketora isn’t sure whether he wants to stare incredulously (and with no small amount of curiosity) at Fukunaga and the stuff he’s just dumped out between them on the bedspread or shut his eyes in an effort to make it less embarrassing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Way

Taketora isn’t sure whether he wants to stare incredulously (and with no small amount of curiosity) at Fukunaga and the stuff he’s just dumped out between them on the bedspread or shut his eyes in an effort to make it less embarrassing.

He goes with blushing furiously up the back of his neck and squinting his eyes until his peripheral vision blurs but he can still see Fukunaga’s face. Cause, realistically, Fukunaga is a closed mouth little shit and it’ll be impossible to have this conversation otherwise.

“Where did you even get this stuff?” he mutters, completely unable to imagine a scenario where he didn’t let his eyes slide over the items in the conbini let alone one where he actually got the nerve to pick some up, or take them up to the cash register to buy.

Fukunaga’s eyes crinkle up just slightly at the corners, it’s a little not-a-smile that Taketora has come to recognize means: _you’re cute_ , and tilts his head in the direction of his computer.

And that’s marginally easier to contemplate. Fukunaga’s mom travels around a lot for work and often leaves him to his own devices with some money and a credit card. It’s why they’ve taken to coming over to his place when they want some time alone, cause it’s impossible to relax in the Yamamoto household where everyone is all over everyone else’s space and business.

Over the course of this latest trip to Osaka the two of them have progressed from sloppy makeouts to the occasional sticky sleepover but Taketora hadn’t been aware that Fukunaga was thinking about, well, doing things properly.

Now that there’s condoms and lemon-lime flavoured lubricant and a whole night and day of time they can spend together and alone he wonders how he could have not been thinking about it before.

“You wanna try it?” Taketora asks, just to confirm, “Like try it all the way.”

A bolt of heat slides down his spine to puddle low in his gut at the thought

Fukunaga gives him one long slow blink, and one firm nod for confirmation, and then shrugs and reaches over to squeeze his knee. Basically saying, _I’m game if you are but it’s not like we have to_.

“No, I—um, I want to too, I was just surprised.”

Taketora wants to just roll with it, to chase the pleasure and see where it leads them but they’d learned from the blow job debacle of last month that that wasn’t necessarily the best way to go about trying new things. He considered the mechanics of the act, tilting his head slightly and trying to remember scraps of advice given by the internet, his super-secret stash of purloined bl manga and Kuroo.

“Which one of us is gonna be on top?”

It seems like an important thing to figure out before they get started but from what Taketora understands, there’s no real way to decide between them. They’re about the same build, Fukunaga is a bit taller but it’s only a few centimeters difference, and he’s older but, same thing, it’s only by a few months…

Fukunaga rolls his eyes a bit, but pushes him gently over onto his back and then arches his tiny eyebrows in question, _This okay?_

“Sure, you’re the one who knows what he’s doing,” teases Taketora, flashing him a cheeky grin.

He gets a light smack for that one, but then Fukunaga is climbing carefully on top of him and stealing a fleeting little question of a kiss. And really Taketora has no problems answering him by dragging him in by a fistful of hair and turning that brush of lips into something open-mouthed and filthy.

This is how they work best anyway, Taketora reflects, Fukunaga making a quiet suggestion and him saying hell yes and going for it full tilt.

Fukunaga tastes like the salt from the snacks they’d ploughed through on the walk home and a little bit like the mints he’s taken to eating like candy in order to be breath fresh enough for kissing whenever it should occur and Taketora shivers as he curls his tongue along the sensitive area behind his teeth rucking up the back of his shirt as he tries to pull him closer.

Fukunaga’s weight settles on him more firmly after a moment and Taketora hums in satisfaction and shifts slightly to better trace the knobs of Fukunaga’s spine with the calloused pads of his fingers. They keep it lazy, slotting their mouths together in a familiar slide until their breaths are coming in short bursts and Taketora feels like his skin is too tight and too hot.

Of course that’s when Fukunaga drops his head into the curve of his neck and scrapes his teeth along his throat, sneaking a long-fingered hand up under his shirt to smooth along the flat stretch of his belly.

“Hah,” Taketora breathes, feeling himself twitch and starting to strain against his pants, he can feel himself flushing, it’s still a little embarrassing to get this worked up in front of another person, but a subtle roll of his hips reassures him that Fukunaga is right up there with him.

And it feels so good to rock up against that ridge pressing against the front of Fukunaga’s jeans that he does it again more deliberately.

“Off,” murmurs Fukunaga against his collarbone, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“You first,” counters Taketora.

Fukunaga pulls a face but sits up and yanks his shirt up and off, throwing it off the side of the bed. Taketora shoots him a pleased grin and curls up just enough that Fukunaga can wrestle him out of his spare gym shirt.

The look on his face when he manages it is basically the same one that he gets whenever there’s a sale on dried squid, two parts voracious and one part longing. Feeling emboldened Taketora reaches out to take Fukunaga’s wrist and drag his hand back to his chest. Fukunaga needs no further prompting, and slides both hands smoothly up his body leaving gooseflesh and peaked nipples in his wake.

And then he bends and flicks his tongue around one and Taketora makes an embarrassing yelp. It feels like a crackle of electricity the sensation sparking along his nerves to settle low in his gut, and when he rocks his hips this time it’s mostly involuntary.

Fukunaga’s eyes are huge and dark and his mouth has dropped into a little oh, as he pants for breath and then bends back down to pay attention to his other nipple.

“Oh shit!” 

“More?” queries Fukunaga, his voice a bare breathy whisper, his hips circling on autopilot.

“Yeah,” agrees Taketora, boldly wiggling a hand between them to cup Fukunaga through his jeans.

Fukunaga rewards him with to indrawn breaths in quick succession and leans back to let him unbutton his pants, colour high on his cheeks. The hard hot weight of him in Taketora’s hand is still intoxicating the secret thrill of ‘my boyfriend has a hard on for me’ still hasn’t quite dissipated. Knowing that Fukunaga wants him like this, knowing that he can make him shudder and even moan—it’s almost more arousing than the weight and the heat of Fukunaga’s body. Almost.

“Can I?” he asks, tugging at Fukunaga’s briefs.

Fukunaga gives him a quick nod and reaches for his belt, “You too,” he orders, unbuckling it with deft motions and dragging his chin up for another searing kiss.

They get distracted a couple of times. Taketora by slipping his hands down the back of those skintight jeans and taking two firm handfuls of Fukunaga’s delicious ass, Fukunaga by the slick glide of his hand over his leaking cock.

And it feels so good that Taketora almost misses the creeping sensation of orgasm building in his gut, rocking up against Fukunaga brazenly. When Fukunaga drags the pad of his finger over his slit though his eyes snap open and he pants out a desperate, “Stop!”

Fukunaga flinches away as though he’s been burned and Taketora bites his lip on a desperate whine and digs his fingers into Fukunaga’s thighs to keep from coming.

Fukunaga strokes a hand over his hair in a soothing motion, the quirk of his lips sheepish before he bends to peck his lips in quick apology. Taketora smiles up at him a bit hazily in response, some of the urgency has abated for now but he feels hyperaware of the clench and press of Fukunaga’s thighs where they bracket his hips, a fight to still that easy rocking motion they’d built up.

“Lube?” suggests Taketora.

Fukunaga makes a gratifyingly loud choked off noise and helps him wiggle ungracefully out of his pants and fights with the seal on the new bottle while Taketora bends his knees and lets his legs splay open, keeping his hands off his cock with some effort.

Fukunaga makes a triumphant noise and squeezes a handful of the citrusy smelling stuff into his palm, stopping short when he lifts his head and gets a look at Taketora. The intensity of that stare makes Taketora pleasantly shivery all over, but Fukunaga is dripping lube all over the bedspread and seems to need a little encouragement.

Taketora nudges him with a knee and gives him a broad grin, “You gonna touch me or just stare all night.”

Fukunaga laughs a little bit, just a small amused huff and kisses the inside of his knee, “S’tempting,” he says, “You’re so—”

He shakes his head.

“Touch me,” Taketora groans, “ _Please_.”

The full-body shudder that runs through Fukunaga is just as gratifying as the gentle circle of his thumb against his hole. It’s the same struck-by-lighting coiling pleasure that pools in his belly instead of between his legs, and he can feel himself twitch around the tip of the finger Fukunaga is unintentionally teasing him with.

The intrusion isn’t a new sensation exactly (he’s bisexual and has access to the internet and unscented hand cream) but somehow its, different, more, better. He makes the effort to relax and not flex and clench to catalogue the sensations, and his eyes flutter to half-mast as Fukunaga’s index finger slides into him without resistance.

For some reason it’s Fukunaga who gasps a ragged breath.

He pushes back just a little, feeling surprisingly easy all the usual nervous thoughts and self-conscious worries burnt away by the pleasure of it, the closeness. The single finger circles and presses and is joined by another, this one burns slightly pressing in but only for a second. And then Fukunaga shifts adjusting his grip, and his fingers curl just slightly.

The sudden spark of electric pleasure tears along his nerves and rips a hoarse cry from him, his hips twitching until he’s grinding Fukunaga’s fingers down against the spot.

“Shit,” pants Fukunaga.

It’s the first time he’s ever heard Fukunaga curse, is the vague thought that floats in one ear and directly out the other, as another cold trickle of lube runs down the curve of his balls and into the crack of his ass and he can’t help but hiss slightly at the sharp sting that fades into a satisfying burn as Fukunaga slides a third finger into him with a slow twist.

Fukunaga starts to rock them in time with the rhythm of his fingers, tight circles that grind down on that fucking excellent spot inside him, such an all-consuming feeling that it takes him a minute to realize that Fukunaga is rutting up against his thigh, when he does realize it just makes him hotter.

“Yamamoto, can I—”

“Yes, fuck, yes, come on,” Taketora urges.

Fukunaga’s fingers slide free and he feels the loss keenly, fisting his hands in the comforter to keep from reaching down between his legs and trying to continue where he left off.

There’s a grunt of frustration as Fukunaga struggles with the box of condoms.

“Leave it,” groans Taketora.

“Messy,” he reminds him.

“So we’ll shower, come _on_!”

At the end of the day Fukunaga is only human, he gives himself a few short tight strokes as he smears the lube over his dick and then presses the head up against him, groaning as the ring of muscle flutters against the head of his prick.

“If you need to stop,” Fukunaga reminds him, squeezing his knee.

“Don’t stop,” Taketora says, taking a few deep breaths as Fukunaga starts to press into him.

As the head presses past the ring of muscle, it stings again, and the stretch against his insides full and foreign but it’s also searing hot and with a moment of concentration Taketora thinks he can feel Fukunaga twitch and grow harder inside him.

Fukunaga has to stop halfway shaking in an effort not to fall apart, his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of Taketora’s thighs like he’s fighting to keep himself anchored.

Taketora runs a hand over the sweat slick muscles of his back, murmuring soothing incoherent nonsense and hitching his leg further up over the curve of his hip for leverage and towing him down for a panting kiss that’s more about breathing against each other’s mouth then any kind of technique and the shift pulls him all the way inside.

“You should just be inside me all the time,” Taketora says, rolling his hips just to feel the shift and press of Fukunaga inside him.

“I’d explode and die,” pants Fukunaga breathlessly, bracing himself and giving his hips a jerky little thrust.

Taketora rolls with it pushing back until they’re flush against each other again. For his part Fukunaga can’t seem to bear to pull out more than an inch or so, contenting himself with quick shallow thrusts. The angle isn’t as good as before, the thrusts missing that spot that makes him see stars, but Taketora is kind of okay with that because it means he gets to watch Fukunaga lose it completely and its one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

Unable to resist he snakes a hand between them and starts touching himself with intent  watching Fukunaga as he stills with a broken cry his mouth open in a soft oh and feeling the hot wet gush inside him as he went over the edge.

It takes Taketora a few seconds to realize that he’s being pulled over that edge with him, arching up into his hand and bearing down on Fukunaga’s still-hard cock as his orgasm slams into him with the force of a freight train.

When his brain clicks back online Fukunaga is sprawled half-way on top of him his face buried in the crook of his neck, still breathing heavily. Muzzily he strokes a sweat-soaked curl of dark hair away from his face and presses a sloppy kiss against his temple.

“We should definitely do that again,” he says vaguely.

Fukunaga makes an agreeable hum, but mutters, “Later,” hoarsely against his throat his eyes already slipping shut as he slotted his sweaty body more firmly against Taketora’s side, then, even more muzzily, “Love you.”

Taketora feels something in his chest swell with fondness, and he kisses Fukunaga again even though he’s pretty sure his lover is dead to the world, and says “I love you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed, this is my first time writing for this pair but the two of them are adorable little volley nerds so you'll probably see more of them in the future!
> 
> Done for a tumblr prompt


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